


The Good Shepherd

by honeybun, Sabou



Series: Commune Naufragium [1]
Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Careful touching, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Innocent and sweet, M/M, Mutual Pining, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23235883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybun/pseuds/honeybun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sabou/pseuds/Sabou
Summary: This was created as part of a series of other short stories.Diarmuid always watches his friend closely, working in the fields, chopping wood for the fire, hurrying along the flock which feeds the monastery.He looks at his own hands that are stained here and there with ink, slender and fair. He is driven to distraction thinking of the lay brother’s broad palms, brown from the sun.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Series: Commune Naufragium [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670629
Comments: 7
Kudos: 53





	The Good Shepherd

Diarmuid would eye him from across the table, try to steal a glance when he passed him in the kitchen gardens, or even as he handed him a pail of water, but he never got a good look.

Most people around the monastery called him The Mute, but not Diarmuid, between them both he had always been 'David', but that was a story for another day. Diarmuid held it close to his heart that they were that familiar, he was honoured to receive the closeness that came from using that name.

His friend worked hard, and more frequently now than ever before, Diarmuid imagined his warm hands, rough from wear. He once, in the dead of night, curled up in his cot bed, drew his own hand over his shoulder heavily, over the covers to feel weightier, and closed his eyes to imagine it might be the lay brother. He huffed with displeasure. Even over the woolen blanket, he could barely feel it. 

One trick he had was to lie on his arm uncomfortably a little while until it went numb, but that was far too scheming of him to indulge himself in often. Even when he did and he felt a foreign limb surround his shoulders in an embrace, he was sick to his stomach with it. It wasn’t what he wanted.

His hands would be rough from the rope he pulled and tied so expertly when the boat came in from the lake, with strong muscle from constantly working the fields, callouses from where he’d used the same tools often. Diarmuid found himself thinking of it far too often, even earning a light flick over his head from Brother Rua when he was found to not be paying enough attention. He’d ducked his head and let his fingernails dig crescent moons into the flesh of his palm in punishment for letting himself get carried away again.

He didn’t touch him, even though he wished he could. He noticed no one did, and David’s shoulders rounded out and created a defensive curve whenever anyone came close to doing so, when the farmer down the way patted him on his back for good work, even when a man from the village put coins in his palm for his help fixing a chicken coop, he would flinch as if he didn’t like it. So, Diarmuid decided to show how much he liked David by never touching him, he would always have his hands clasped behind his back, or chatter to him from a few feet away, even careful not to bump against the lay brother as they walked together around the grounds checking traps set for rabbits.

As is true with everything, this could not last.

Diarmuid was prone to clumsiness, he would often find the toe of his shoe tripped him up on a stone slab, or his robes got caught on brambles and ripped a little. He’d stay up at night fretting over his own nature, pricking his finger with the needle and tutting over frayed hems.

One evening, on one of their walks - those which Diarmuid looked forward to most of all, slow and easy and warm, the Summer sun fading down to a violet shade low on the horizon - Diarmuid came to know the answer to the question which had plagued him now for some time.

It was a gnarled root that had made its way free from the grass and stuck out precariously from the ground. Too happy and too lost in the lay brother to notice, Diarmuid inevitably tripped.

It was an awful way about it, too, because he hadn’t realised it, he hadn’t even stuck his hands out, and was rapidly heading towards the hard forest floor with nothing to catch him.

Warm strong hands held him up, and a startled grunt came from behind him. Diarmuid’s breathing was quick and shallow, suspended a few inches above the ground, he was hastily hauled back to his feet and vigorously patted down.

‘I’m fine!’ Diarmuid says, high pitched and breathy, heart pounding a mile a minute.

David looks at him with an eyebrow slightly raised, and Diarmuid wishes as always, even more so in times like these, that he knew exactly what he was thinking.

Before he realises it, warm, soft hands are gently cupping his face, a thumb slightly roughened at the edge strokes firmly up and down his cheek as the lay brother makes an assessment.

He’d never assumed they would be soft, so soft. Diarmuid reassesses all of his previous thoughts, perhaps it was the sheep’s wool, shepherds were always said to have the softest hands for the oil laying in their flock’s coats. David had been tending to them for years now.

Later then, when Diarmuid has somewhat gotten over the small shock of the lay brother touching him, he weighs up his thoughts. In the quiet of his dorm, he thinks how fitting it is that his friend should be so soft and warm there, his appearance would only ever indicate the exact opposite, hard, forged from war and work, and yet when he stroked Diarmuid’s cheek in worry, it was as soft as silk.

From then on, in the small and precious moments they are able to share together, both alone in the kitchen, on their walks, brushing by in the halls, there is touch there. Even just the bump of their shoulders together - or more Diarmuid’s shoulder against the bulk of David's arm. Once, as Diarmuid tended a brewing pot in the small kitchen, David came and looked over his shoulder, while laying a heavy hand on his upper arm. In his dorm that night, Diarmuid did not have to lay his own hand over it to imagine, like a phantom he could still feel it there, and he was not certain if he had imagined his friend circling his thumb against his skin gently or not.

He carried it close in his heart that his friend was so cautious with others, he was honoured when receiving a gentle touch, a firm guiding hand, even a sort of embrace.

On one such evening, when the two of them sat side by side, thighs touching, he could swear he felt the soft pressure of a cheek or a pair of lips against the crown of his head. He could be sure, but when he meekly looked up at his friend again, his face was forward, lost in the waves.

The Mute looks from the corner of his eye as Diarmuid blushes and turns back to gaze at the sea, the feel of soft curls, like lambs wool, against his lips.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed reading this short snippet <3  
> as always this is dedicated to sabo, my ever suffering and only remaining fan xox
> 
> stay safe and well xox


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